


Through the Eyes of Youth

by YumYumPM



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Amnesia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-13 05:28:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2138709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YumYumPM/pseuds/YumYumPM
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Can you imagine Illya having to handle a Napoleon who thinks he's seven years old when a knock on the head develops into a case of amnesia?<br/>Published in Worlds Enough 3<br/>2006</p>
            </blockquote>





	Through the Eyes of Youth

“Come on, Napoleon. Upsy daisy. We need to get back to headquarters.”

He groaned and sat up, gradually opening his eyes. His vision was blurred and he blinked to clear it. A hand touched the back of his head, and he hissed as a sharp pain shot through him. Blinking rapidly, his eyes finally focused on the owner of the voice. The first thing that stood out was bright blue eyes beneath yellow bangs. A stranger was squatting next to him wearing a black suit, white shirt and a thin tie. For some unknown reason that struck him as strange and he wasn't sure why. 

“That’s quite a lump you have there, my friend. We’ll have them take a look at it when we get home,” the voice was saying. He talked funny, it was English, but sounded - different. Two words stood out. Friend the man said and home. He didn’t know where home was, but it sounded good to him, so he nodded. Scampering to his knees, he got up off the ground and followed the man with the yellow hair. At least now he knew the yellow-haired guy was a friend.

There were a lot of questions he wanted to ask, but car keys were dangled in his face and his new friend said, “Napoleon, you drive and I’ll call into headquarters and let them know we were successful.” Napoleon? Did he call him Napoleon? It didn’t really matter, he thought as he took the keys and looked at the car with obvious delight. He licked his lips in anticipation. Oh boy, the nice man was going to let him drive a car!

He slid into the front seat and ran his hand over the steering wheel. Searching he found the place to put the key and after a little fumbling managed to put it in the hole and turn it. The sound of the engine starting drowned out the voice of the other guy talking. Glancing down he spotted the pedals. He twisted the wheel with enjoyment, satisfied that he knew where everything was and how to use it; he put his foot to the pedal and stepped on it. He frowned, nothing happened, the engine sound just grew louder. There was this metal thing sticking out from the steering wheel. He pushed it down and the car moved backwards very fast.

“Stop! Stop! Stop!” the other guy was yelling at him, scaring him. He didn’t know what to do, so he pulled his foot away from the pedal. “Napoleon, what is wrong with you,” the man was saying as he pushed the metal thing back into place and got out of the car and went around to his side. “Move over. I’ll drive.”

He stuck out his bottom lip and scooted over. It wasn’t fair. He was only having fun. For the rest of the trip he stared out the window, turning his head sideways to see through the glass when they passed large buildings. Eventually they stopped.

He heard the driver side door open and close as he stared out at the unfamiliar building. He opened his door and got out wanting to ask where they were but the yellow-haired fellow was already heading down the stairs. He looked at the sign over the door ‘Del … Floria’s … Cleaners’ then hurried to follow almost slipping down the steps in his haste.

He couldn’t help staring at everything in fascination as he followed into a booth and the yellow-haired guy reached around and pulled the curtain closed behind them. He was having second thoughts about continuing further when his friend reached up, turning a hook and pushed open the back of the wall. Not knowing what else to do, he reluctantly followed.

The first thing he saw as he stepped through the doorway was a woman sitting behind a desk. His eye passed over her and roamed around the area taking in all that was there. 

“Welcome back, Illya. I hear your mission was a success.” 

Illya? The guy called him Napoleon so Illya must be his friend’s name. While he was busy checking out the room he missed the strange look the lady sent his way, unaware that he'd been here before and that he normally let her put the badge on him. A hand gripped his arm turning him, and something was pinned to his clothing. He lifted it up to read. 11?

“Yes, it was. Napoleon’s been acting a bit strange so I’m taking him to medical to have him checked out. Tell Mr. Waverly I’ll be along with a report as soon as possible.” He heard and frowned at Illya. He wasn’t the one acting strange he thought. Illya shook his head and beckoned him to follow. A metal door slid open revealing a long wide hallway. Not knowing what else to do, he followed.

People were passing them, staring at him and he didn’t like it. He wanted to be somewhere, anywhere else. 

They came to an elevator and got in. Buttons! He pressed every one of the buttons he could until Illya pulled his hand away asking, “What’s gotten into you?”

Startled he backed away, hanging his head at the reprimand. He kept his head down as the door opened and closed several times even though he was curious as to what lay beyond them.

The door opened yet again. 

“Are you coming?” Illya asked impatiently from the hallway.

Hands clinched in his pockets, eyes downcast he followed. His lower lip trembled as he fought not to cry. He hadn’t meant any harm. He’d only pushed a few buttons. Besides big boys don’t cry. He was so involved in his own thoughts that he was caught unawares when the feet he’d been following stopped.

“What brings Section Two’s top agents in to see us today?” A jovial voice asked. He looked up to see a rotund form covered by a white coat addressing them. He hung back and let Illya do the talking.

“There was a bit of a scuffle, Dr. Kerstz, and Napoleon was hit on the back of his head.” 

“Hmmm, let’s have a look, shall we?” He watched as the man in the white coat reached over and touched the back of his head. He hissed as pain shot through him and glaring at the man in white, pulled away from the inquisitive fingers.

“Tell you what, Solo. Why don’t you get up on the table and we’ll check you out,” the man who had, without meaning to, caused him pain said. Unbeknownst to him the two men watched as he leaped atop the examination table and began a wide-eyed scanning of the room, his curiosity getting the better of him, while swinging his legs to and fro.

“He’s been acting a bit odd.” Illya pulled Dr. Arnold Kerstz to one side to speak more confidentially. His eyes remained watching the decidedly uncharacteristic actions of his partner.

“You mean more so then usual?” Dr. Kerstz jovially responded, receiving an indignant glare from the subject of their conversation.

“Napoleon, I have to leave and give Mr. Waverly our preliminary report,” Illya called out to him before he turned and left the room.

He watched the parting with trepidation, and slowly stopped swinging his legs as the man in the white coat approached. 

“Let’s have a look here,” the man said and he leaned backward, blinking, as the man flashed a light in his eyes. “Hmmmm.” The flashlight was returned to the pocket of the white coat. “Now, follow my finger.” Dr. Kerstz requested and he moved his head side to side, following the finger in front of his face. Dr. Kerstz grunted and asked, “Now for a few simple questions. What’s your name?”

“Napoleon?”

He frowned as the man laughed. He hadn’t meant to be funny.

“Let’s try again. Where do you live?”

Napoleon’s face scrunched as he frowned and thought. Where did he live? Unable to come up with an answer he shrugged.

“Okay. How about how old are you?”

His face lit up. At last a question he could answer. He held up both of his hands to show. “Seven,” he said proudly.

Dr. Kerstz was frowning at him now. “Tell you what – let’s get your clothes off and check you over thoroughly.” 

A lady in white was with him now and she tried to help him remove his jacket. He panicked and pushed her away causing her to fall to the floor. “Go away,” Napoleon shouted as he jumped off the table and scooted into a corner. He might not remember much, but he knew he didn’t like girls. Girls were yucky. In his minds eye, Napoleon Solo was a seven year-old kid, even the fact that his physical size was larger did not register.

Dr. Kerstz moved to assist his nurse up off the floor, asking if she was alright and instructing her to put in a call for Mr. Kuryakin. Napoleon didn’t notice, having shrugged off his jacket and finding a gun underneath which he began examining with great delight. He didn’t even hear the announcement over the loudspeaker requesting that Mr. Kuryakin report to the medical section. It would not have registered anyhow, since all he knew of his new friend was the name Illya.

“Give me the gun, Mr. Solo.” Dr. Kerstz, his hand held out, was trying to take his new toy away.

Napoleon hugged the gun to his chest. “No! Mine!” he said adamantly. Dr. Kerstz backed off and he went back to examining his new acquisition.

The door slid open and Illya rushed in. Napoleon, not paying attention, had the barrel of his gun pointed at his eye. Suddenly the gun was snatched away from him and Illya had turned to Dr. Kerstz to snap, “What’s going on here?”

Napoleon wasn’t happy about having his gun taken from him, but now he had something more urgent to think about. Tugging on Illya’s sleeve and holding the front of his pants he whispered, “Gotta go.”

Illya was looking at him strangely, so he said more insistently, “Gotta pee.”

“You know where it is,” Illya sounded exasperated but at least he was pointing to a door. Napoleon didn’t bother thanking him as he rushed over to it. He had no idea that at that moment Dr. Kerstz was trying to explain to Illya that his partner was now a seven year-old child trapped in a grown man’s body. He was too busy relieving himself. 

Napoleon didn’t hear Illya’s exclamation of, “You can’t be serious.” He was washing his hands. He looked up and saw a strange face looking back at him. He screamed and backed away, huddling on the floor next to the door.

***

Illya was in Mr. Waverly’s office, updating him on the finish of their current assignment, when the announcement was heard over the loud speaker. “Mr. Kuryakin, please report to the medical area immediately.” Was it his imagination or had there been extra emphasis on the word ‘immediately’? 

“Perhaps you had better go see what that’s all about,” Mr. Waverly suggested, taking a puff from his pipe.

Illya nodded as he rose from his chair and walked to the door. Once outside though he broke into a run. What had Napoleon gotten himself into now.

The door slid open and Illya rushed in. He pulled himself up short, spotting Napoleon in a corner with the barrel of his gun pointed at his eye. Moving swiftly, he snatched the gun away and turned to Dr. Kerstz to snap, “What’s going on here?”

Napoleon tried to retrieve his gun, but Illya ignored him. He was more interested in listening to what Dr. Kerstz had to say. Before Dr. Kerstz could say anything, Illya was distracted by a tugging at his jacket sleeve. Napoleon was next to him, his hand at his crotch a look of pain on his face. “I gotta go,” Napoleon whispered.

“What?” Illya asked.

“I gotta pee.”

The strangely worded request had Illya looking at Napoleon as if he were crazy. “You know where it is,” Illya snapped impatiently, pointing to the bathroom, before turning back to Dr. Kerstz.

“This is a new one on me. In all my years of working for U.N.C.L.E. I’ve never come across anything like this.”

“And just what is ‘this’?”

“Mr. Kuryakin, your partner is under the impression that he is seven years-old.”

“What!” Illya exclaimed incredulously. “You can’t be serious.” A sudden yell from the bathroom had him at the door in a flash, flinging it open, Napoleon’s gun directed at an unknown adversary. With one hand still on the knob and seeing no one else there, he stuck his head around the open door to find Napoleon huddled in fear on the floor, pointing at the mirror. Illya looked at the mirror not sure what to expect and saw his reflection. He looked back at Napoleon who whispered. "Scary man." A light bulb went off in his head as he realized that Napoleon, his mind that of a small child, had seen his own reflection and not recognized it. Nothing else could have convinced him that Dr. Kerstz’s conclusion was correct. 

“Come on,” Illya said, a smile twitching his lips as he reached his hand to help Napoleon up. “The nasty man is gone.”

Guiding Napoleon back into the examining room, Illya waited while Dr. Kerstz completed his examination. The thought of U.N.C.L.E.’s chief enforcement agent having the mind of a child was amusing, but the repercussions it could have if others found out could be detrimental. “No one and I mean no one is to know what’s happened.” He warned Dr. Kerstz who nodded his understanding.

Illya turned back to his partner. “Do you think you can re-dress yourself?”

Napoleon’s lower lip jutted out. “Course I can.”

“Then do it.”

“Mr. Kuryakin, there are no signs of drugs being introduced so it’s pretty obvious that the head trauma is the probable cause of his … um … regression. But we have no idea why ...” Dr. Kerstz seemed at a loss.

“Doctor,” Illya interrupted impatiently. “Can’t we just explain to him who he is?”

“I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“Why not?”

“There is not a lot known about how the brain works. Telling him could do more harm than good.”

“Then there is nothing more you can do, is there? How long do you estimate he will be like this?”

“There’s no way of knowing. It could be days, weeks, months, even years,” Dr. Kerstz reluctantly admitted as Napoleon finished putting his clothing back on. The nurse had tried unsuccessfully to help Illya noticed. Napoleon’s appearance was no longer that of a suave, well-dressed man-about-town. His shirt was buttoned, but in the wrong holes, his other clothing disheveled making him look as if he’d been dressed by a … well a … seven year-old.

Napoleon stood perfectly still as Illya took a little time to re-button his shirt, adjust the tie and smooth the fit of his jacket. While Napoleon didn't seem to trust the nurse, an unusual thing in itself, he still seemed to trust Illya.

“Come with me,” Illya said after he’d looked Napoleon over critically and found his appearance suitable. The two walked down the corridors, Napoleon a just little closer to his right side than normal especially when a female would pass them. First Illya would have to find someplace safe to stash Napoleon. Then he would have to have a talk with Mr. Waverly.

***

They were halfway to Napoleon’s office when a door slid open. Napoleon stopped and sniffed the air, then stopped and loudly proclaimed, “I’m hungry.”

Illya sighed and turned back. “Later.”

Napoleon stomped his foot. “I’m hungry … NOW!”

People were starting to give them funny looks. Illya grabbed Napoleon’s arm and dragged him toward the elevator, hissing, “Later.”

They finally made it to Napoleon’s office without further incidents. Illya pushed Napoleon down into his chair, perhaps just a bit more roughly then he meant to and started back toward the door.

“I’m sorry. I didn't mean to make you mad.” stopped Illya before he reached his destination. The words, said quietly, sounded pathetically sad. Sighing Illya turned around and took a good look at his partner. Napoleon’s head was down and he looked as if he were trying not to cry, his bottom lip trembling. Even knowing the reason behind it Illya was finding it very hard to deal with the fact that Napoleon was behaving most uncharacteristically.

Swallowing his irritation, Illya counted to ten. He walked back and squatted down next to his partner to say less briskly, “I’m not mad at you. It is just that I need to talk to someone and I need for you to stay here. Okay?”

Napoleon nodded solemnly. Illya stood back up and once more headed for the door.

“I’m still hungry,” Napoleon whispered plaintively behind him, bringing an unexpected smile to his face as Illya moved swiftly out the door and down the hall. Even in his hurry, Illya stopped a female co-worker and request she bring Napoleon something to eat from the commissary. Then he turned his mind to how to go about explaining this turn of events to Mr. Waverly.

***

The first words out of Alexander Waverly’s mouth, even before Illya could sit down were, “Just what is this nonsense of my chief enforcement agent thinking he is seven years-old?”

So much for discretion Illya thought as he finished lowering himself into his chair. He should have known better.

“I’m afraid, sir, that it is not nonsense,” Illya said. “As I mentioned earlier Napoleon did suffer a blow to the back of his head … and now appears to believe himself to be seven.” He hesitated before adding. “I don’t know if these means anything but he seems to have developed a sudden aversion to women as well.”

“That certainly doesn’t sound like Mr. Solo.” Mr. Waverly raised a shaggy eyebrow. “And where is Mr. Solo at the moment?”

“I thought it safer to leave him in his office.” 

Alexander Waverly grunted. “Hmmph, Napoleon Solo acting like a child.” He reached for his pipe, leaned back in his chair and shook his head. “Nothing new there. I’ve always felt most of my agents acted like children,” he continued seemingly talking to himself. “If Thrush were to find out about this turn of events, they could create chaos and that would result in disaster.” 

Waverly sighed unhappily as he lit the pipe, considered his options. “Hmm, it would best to keep this under … er wraps. I’m assigning you to keep an eye on him. Keep him out of trouble.” The old man pointed the stem of his pipe at Illya to punctuate his command and then waved him out of the room. “Agents behaving like children … it boggles the mind,” he muttered under his breath.

****

Illya stepped through the sliding door and into an empty office. He did a 360 degree turn before calling out. “Napoleon?”

A dark head slipped out from underneath Napoleon’s desk.

Illya squatted down to ask, “What are you doing down there?”

“Hiding,” Napoleon informed him as he crawled out with Illya’s help. “These girls kept coming in trying to kiss me!” he explained, a pained look showing on his face.

Illya carefully kept his face neutral as he brushed Napoleon off and asked, “You don’t like girls kissing you?”

Napoleon’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “Kissing’s yucky.”

That confirmed Illya’s suspicions. It had never occurred to him that Napoleon had not appreciated females at anytime during his lifetime. Being attracted to women seemed as much a part of Napoleon's nature as breathing. 

“Come on,” Illya said. “I’m taking you home.”

"Can I eat first?"

***

Using Napoleon’s keys Illya let themselves into the apartment. Napoleon slipped past him and was gaping in wide-eyed amazement at the luxuriance of it. “I live here?”

“That you do,” Illya assured him, watching as his partner explored his living room as if he’d never seen it before. 

Napoleon went to the large globe stationed near the picture window and sent it spinning, then he got down on the floor in front of the fireplace and looked up inside before moving to the bookshelves and running his finger along the spines.

“Where’s my comics?” Napoleon asked with a frown.

Since Illya had no answer to that question he stayed silent, hoping against hope that something in the apartment would trigger Napoleon’s memory and bring it back. Putting up with Napoleon as an adult was one thing, putting up with him as a seven year-old was something else. On the way there, he’d almost wrecked the car trying to keep Napoleon from falling out the window.

Napoleon was like a kid let loose in a candy shop. There wasn’t anything he didn’t try to fool with. Illya didn’t see the harm in it, since everything did belong to Napoleon. It wasn’t until Napoleon started to fool with, to the best of Illya’s knowledge, one of his prized possessions and almost dropped it that Illya intervened. 

Dealing with Napoleon normally was bad enough, dealing with a Napoleon that was acting like a child was far worse. Trying to get Napoleon to bed that night was a chore in itself. Left to his own devices while taking a bath Napoleon had almost flooded the bathroom. Illya cleaned up the mess while Napoleon got into his pajamas. Most of the buttons ending up in the wrong holes. It was a fight just to get him to bed. Napoleon kept finding reasons to stay awake, first it was ‘get me a drink of water’ then ‘read me a story’. Illya would have rather been out fighting Thrush.

Illya settled down in the living room with one of the many books from Napoleon’s vast library. Around midnight he decided to check up on him. Napoleon, his face full of innocence, lay sprawled across the bed, the covers shoved down to the foot of the bed. Illya smiled, he could almost imagine what Napoleon had been like when he was younger if it hadn’t been for the snoring.

***

Illya, his reading glasses still perched on his nose, had fallen asleep in an armchair when he heard the scream.

Pulling his gun, he raced into the bedroom to find Napoleon, a horror stricken look upon his face, sitting up and staring at the tenting sheet under which he lay. 

“What’s wrong?” Illya asked, after he turned on the light and swept the room. Not finding anything he put his gun away.

“What is it?” Napoleon asked pointed to the lump. 

Illya swept away the sheet to find the cause of the tenting in Napoleon’s pajama bottoms. Illya stared at it blankly. It became rather obvious that what he was seeing was Napoleon with a hard-on. Napoleon, as a rule, had better control over his bodily functions and Illya had never before seen him with one so blatantly displayed. It belatedly occurred to Illya that while in his mind he was seven years-old that he was a grown man and that was a normal occurrence. However, in this instance it was probably a condition that he wouldn’t find himself in for some years.

“Ummm, it’s a…” Illya desperately tried to think of a way to explain an erection to someone who thought he was seven. This was going to be difficult. 

“My willy hurts!” Napoleon squirmed uncomfortable and looked up at Illya with pain-filled eyes.

“Your what? Never mind. Tell you what. Go back to sleep and it will eventually go away,” Illya suggested.

“What if it doesn’t?” whined Napoleon.

“Think of girls.” It was a line that Napoleon had once used on him, though the conditions were quite different. 

Napoleon’s face scrunched up. He appeared intent in his quest. Unfortunately nothing happened. There was still a large tent beneath Napoleon’s pajamas. 

Illya sat beside Napoleon on the bed. Explaining the birds and the bee’s to a normally sexually active Solo wasn’t something he had signed on for. “Napoleon, what you are experiencing is called an erection.”

Napoleon looked blank.

“Most males have them,” Illya assured him.

“Do you have one?” Napoleon asked curious.

“Er … no. Not at the moment.”

“Can I see?”

Illya stared at him. Napoleon was looking at him trustingly. 

“No!” Illya said firmly.

Napoleon looked distinctly disappointed.

Okay back to basics. Illya looked down at his clasped hand as he tried to think of an acceptable term for what he wanted to explain. Perhaps the term Napoleon had already used?

“There are a couple of little sacs under your … er … willy that produce … er … that is makes a …” the bewildered look on Napoleon’s face told Illya that this approach was not working out.

“Okay, let’s try it this way. Blood flows through your body, right?”

Napoleon nodded.

“Well when it flows unto your … er … willy, it makes it hard like it is now.”

Napoleon squirmed causing his cock to pop out of his pajama bottoms and stuck straight up. Illya stared at it, before hurriedly looking away. While they had oftentimes seen each other naked, he didn’t make it a practice of staring, after all if you’ve seen one cock, you’ve seen them all. Right? Illya snuck another look, evidently not.

“It’s so big.” Napoleon sounded amazed.

It wasn’t that big comparatively speaking, Illya thought. But he supposed to someone who thought they were seven, it might appear so. This was confusing; Napoleon still looked like Napoleon and sounded like Napoleon. On the other hand Illya found himself reacting to the sight and crossed his legs hoping to hide his own growing erection. 

“Um … have you ever touched yourself … down there?”

Napoleon turned a bright red and nodded.

“Well, then, you know what to do right? You just wrap your hand around it and …” he demonstrated with hand motions

“I’m not allowed,” Napoleon mumbled, his eyes lowered.

Illya raised an eyebrow. “You have my permission.”

“Really!”

“Yes, really,” Illya said with just a touch a sarcasm as he got up from the bed. 

***

Illya sat wearily down upon the guest room bed and ran his hands over his face. This was not good. This was not wise. The sight of Napoleon’s hard cock so shamelessly exposed should not be affecting him so. He covered his ears, not wanting to hear the sounds coming from Napoleon’s room. In all the years Illya had known him, Napoleon had never been quite so vocal, at least not in his presence.

He had finished instructing Napoleon on the mechanics of masturbation, something he never thought he’d have to do and planned to leave the room in order to give Napoleon a little privacy. He’d just risen when a warm stream of liquid hit on the back of the neck. He turned in time to see Napoleon, his eyes wide with astonishment and a little scared at the amount of cum shooting out of his cock.

Illya would have thought that after an orgasm like that that Napoleon would slip into sleep. But no, once the first shock wore off Napoleon had a million questions. Each question coming faster then the last. 

Illya frantically searched his mind for a way of explaining semen to someone who should already know, at the same time feeling that Waverly certainly could not have meant this to be part of his assignment.

Napoleon stopped listening halfway through Illya’s explanation, ready to repeat the experience. When Napoleon asked him to join in, saying he’d like to watch him do it, Illya beat a hasty retreat.

What worried Illya the most was his body’s reaction to what had happened. Illya was cosmopolitan enough to know that sex with another man could be good … but this was his partner, yet not his partner. Those types of thoughts would never have occurred to him if Napoleon had been … well, Napoleon. With a sigh, Illya stripped down to his boxers, counted to a hundred in Russian and finally fell asleep.

****

The next morning as Illya was towel drying his hair, he contacted Mr. Waverly and brought him up-to-date. He had no choice but to put on his rumpled suit from the day before, realizing that in the excitement of dealing with Napoleon’s predicament he had neglected to think about his clothing. There was nothing to be done, he would have to make a trip to his apartment and grab a few things. Leaving Napoleon alone, here in his own apartment would not be an option.

Alexander Waverly agreed. In fact he had more to say on the subject. “You and Mr. Solo are not to come into the office. Officially you are both on holiday.”

Another voice broke in over the receiver. “We think that we may have found a correlation for Mr. Solo’s present state of mind.”

Illya looked at the silver pen. “Really?”

“Yes. It appears that when Mr. Solo was seven his parents separated and he was sent to live with his grandparents.”

“I don’t understand.” Illya shook his head. He was no psychologist and had no idea what the information might mean.

“At the present time neither do we, Mr. Kuryakin,” Mr. Waverly’s voice returned before abruptly signing off.

Illya was adjusting the collar on his jacket when he entered Napoleon’s bedroom. Napoleon was in his closet, his suits scattered all over the floor.

“What are you doing?” Illya asked, as he worked his tie.

“Can’t find anything to wear,” came a petulant voice from inside the closet as another suit flew by hitting the floor.

Illya started picking up the rumbled garments. “You have lots of clothes.”

“But they’re all yucky.” Napoleon stuck his head out of the closet long enough to complain.

Illya moved forward to help Napoleon pick out something and noticed he was naked as the day he was born. “Get dressed,” Illya ordered.

“I just said I have nothing to wear,” Napoleon responded petulantly.

Illya moved to the dresser and pulled out a pair of boxers doing his best to avoid looking at his partner’s naked form. “At least put these on,” he commanded gruffly as he moved to the closet to inspect what was left. Between the two of them, they managed to find a pair of khaki slacks and a polo shirt that Napoleon didn’t object to.

Breakfast proved an interesting experience. Napoleon’s kitchen contained nothing suitable, the bread was stale and even toasted, Napoleon refused to eat it without jelly. The milk was out-of-date and Napoleon took one sip of coffee and spat it up. Illya was forced to give up and decided they would stop on the way back from his apartment and pick-up something. Napoleon’s taste as a child proved vastly different from those of his as an adult. 

Never having dealt with a seven year-old before, Illya found himself loosing his patience. Napoleon looked like an adult, so Illya kept expecting him to act like one. It started with Napoleon skipping down the hallway and escalated from there. He hit every button in the elevator and hid behind Illya when ever someone entered. Illya drew the line, when Napoleon tried to hold his hand on the way to the car. 

 

***

“You live here?” Napoleon asked as Illya used his key to open his apartment door. “Not very big is it?” he continued as he stared frankly around as Illya pulled out his already packed suitcase. 

Illya didn’t answer. Compared to Napoleon’s, he supposed it wasn’t. But it was his and he was comfortable with it. 

“What’s this?”

Illya turned around to find Napoleon inspecting his English horn. Napoleon put it to his lips and tried to blow. What came out sounded like a sick calf and Illya quickly took the instrument away.

“It’s an English horn,” Illya explained. “and not a toy.”

“You play?”

Illya nodded.

Napoleon plopped cross-legged on the floor and demanded, “Play.”

Illya started to refuse, but one glance at the expectant look on Napoleon’s face changed his mind.  
He wiped off the mouth piece then closed his eyes as he let the music carry him away.

When he finished Illya opened his eyes. Napoleon, his chin rested on his fists, was looking up at him with unadulterated admiration in his eyes. He was unprepared when Napoleon popped up suddenly and hugged him around the waist. “I love you,” Napoleon said with sincere childlike innocence. 

Illya’s body stiffened, then he gave in and hugged Napoleon back. “I love you too,” Illya whispered back, Illya was beginning to realize that it was true and not so innocently either. However it was going to have to be a secret.

***

The next couple of days were enough to try the patience of a saint and Illya was no saint. Illya was obviously not the one in control and dealing with Napoleon proved quite an experience. Napoleon on a normal day was bad enough. Napoleon acting like a seven year-old was a nightmare.

During the day Napoleon would be a regular hoyden, taking his prized record collection and using them as Frisbees. He couldn’t seem to sit still and watch TV. There were only a few stations, but he kept flipping back and forth between the channels until Illya finally had enough and unplugged it. That earned him a loud razzberry.

Nighttime found Illya trying to get a reluctant Napoleon to go to bed. The only way to quiet him was with music or reading a story. Napoleon could be playfully affectionate, moving close to Illya and snuggling or irritating, depending on his mood. Napoleon would finally fall to sleep allowing Illya to escape to the guest bedroom. Unfortunately at sometime during the night Napoleon would return to what was becoming his favorite pastime. Masturbation. And being quite vocal about it too. That meant Illya was losing a lot of sleep, which made for one cranky Russian.

To top it off, Napoleon proved quite opinionated on a variety of subjects and wasn’t shy about letting Illya know. When Illya ordered his favorite Italian food delivered from a nearby restaurant, Napoleon pronounced it yucky and threw it against the wall. Yucky was fast growing Illya’s least favorite word. Illya had just managed to keep control of his temper. He had however made Napoleon clean it up and was surprised by the curses that Napoleon muttered under his breath. 

After three days of this Illya, during his daily check-in, begged Mr. Waverly for relief. 

“Mr. Kuryakin, you know that the less people who know about this the better,” Waverly replied gruffly.

“Okay, what if I hit him over the head with something? Maybe it will bring his memory back,” Illya asked desperately.

“No, no, no!” Dr. Kerstz’s voice exclaimed over the communicator. “To do so could create more problems.”

“Mr. Kuryakin, I will have something sent to help elevate your … er ... little difficulty. In the meantime I’m sure you’ll be able to handle the problem in your usual capable manner,” Waverly said before closing the connection.

What Illya got was a package containing coloring books and crayons, and a note more or less stating that the tightest security had to be held about Napoleon’s condition and that he was stuck. No matter how irritating Illya found his partner, Napoleon had found a way to defuse the situation. Napoleon would wrap his arms around him and say the three magic words “I love you” and Illya’s anger would melt.

They couldn’t go anywhere because Napoleon’s behavior was so unpredictable. The one time they had ventured out proved a nightmare. Napoleon with a seven year-olds curiosity was rampant. To the average man and woman Napoleon appeared an adult, his mind however had him making the most inappropriate statements at the worst possible times and Illya had to more than once steer Napoleon away from trouble. To cap it off, Napoleon didn’t see anything wrong with playing with himself in public.

Illya was trying once again to put a stop to Napoleon’s inappropriate touching when his communicator went off. “Yes,” he snapped irritably.

“Mr. Kuryakin, watch yourself,” Waverly’s gruff voice proclaimed.

“My apologies …, sir,” Illya said absently into his communicator his attention diverted. Napoleon looked ready to wander off. Illya reached out grabbing him before he’d gotten more then two steps away. There was a nearby phone booth. Illya shoved his partner inside, followed him in and sat on him, eliciting a squawk of complaint, while closing the booth door. “Shss,” he directed at Napoleon before turning back to his communicator. “You were saying, sir?”

“Section IV has reported increased interest in both you and Mr. Solo by Thrush.”

Napoleon was squirming beneath him, trying to shove him off. Illya rose slightly, plopping down heavily on Napoleon’s lap earning another squawk from Napoleon. 

“I’ve decided that until Mr. Solo’s mental state returns to normal the two of you would be safer out of the country. Our safe house in the Caribbean has been suggested.”

Illya closed his eyes envisioning several hours flying time with a rambunctious Napoleon.

“To that end I’ve made arrangements for one of U.N.C.L.E.’s smaller jets to be placed at your disposal.”

Illya sent out a silent prayer of thanks. Someone up there must like him. “How soon do we leave?”

Illya snapped his communicator shut once the conversation was over, opened the booth door and got out. Looking down on an indignant Napoleon he asked, “If you think you can manage to behave, how would you like to go on a plane ride?”

Napoleon’s face lit up. “A plane?” He slipped out of the booth, gripped Illya’s hand, dragging him along. “Let’s go.”

***

By the time they arrived at the air terminal they found the plane warmed up and ready to go. 

“Weathers turning nasty near the coast,” one of the crew had remarked as he handed over the flight schedule.

Illya nodded then sat Napoleon down and explained to him, much as one would to a child, the type of behavior he expected.

He glanced over at Napoleon, napping in the co-pilots chair. Napoleon looked like he always did, except every once in a while his expression would change, be more open, almost child-like. Frowning Illya started remembering instances where he’d lost his temper at his partner and how Napoleon would shrink back and cower, making him ashamed. Illya’s own childhood had been far from ideal, but he couldn’t help but wondered what had happened to make the young Napoleon that way. Whatever it was the adult Napoleon had long since gotten over it.

Rain was coming down in torrents and Illya was getting ready to change course when lightening flashed almost upon them. Napoleon came awake with a scream. Illya had never seen such a look of terror upon his partner’s face.

“It’s just a little lightning, Napoleon,” Illya said soothingly. Unfortunately his words had no effect and Napoleon grabbed the wheel pulling it to him. The plane rose sharply. Illya yelled at him trying to pull him away, but Napoleon for all his childlike ways still had his adult strength. Illya finally resorted to clipping him behind the ear. Once the wheel was free of Napoleon’s control, the plane took a steep nose dive. Illya regained control just in the nick of time. Fighting the wheel and making a bumpy landing in a field. 

Napoleon was regaining conscious and Illya was having a difficult time calming him when he heard something banging on the side of the plane. “Stay here,” Illya commanded as he moved back into the cabin and opened the hatch. Standing in the pouring rain was a deputy of the local law enforcement department.

“Nice landin’,” said the individual in question, water dripping down his rain gear. He appeared to be chewing on something.

“Thank you,” Illya responded politely, a loud clap of thunder threatened to drown out his words. “May I ask where I am?” he shouted across the wind. 

“Jasper County, South Carolina.”

Illya winched, Napoleon had a vice-like hold on the back of his jacket, crumpling the fabric. He should have known that Napoleon would not stay in the cockpit as he was told.

The loud roaring of an engine distracted them all. Through the downpour all any one could see was a green tractor along with someone in a yellow slicker bearing down upon them.

“That would be Randy Cobb. He owns this place,” the deputy informed Illya.

The tractor slowed and Mr. Cobb, a shotgun in his hand, jumped down. “Howdy, Stan,” he greeted the deputy. “What we have here?”

“I dropped by to see how you were faring and found this. I reckon we got us a couple of fools, seeing as they was flying in this weather,” Stan shot back, then turned to Illya. “You the pilot?”

“Yes. Illya Kuryakin and my friend here is Napoleon Solo,” Illya said as he shook hands with both the deputy and Mr. Cobb. “My apologies, I wasn’t expecting bad weather until we got closer to the gulf. I’ll take off and be out of your way as soon as it clears up.”

Cobb, a big burly man, and Stan exchanged looks. “You gonna have a long wait. Storm front moved in sudden like. We got tornado warnings according to the latest news. I don’t see ya goin’ anywhere’s anytime soon.”

Illya let out an exasperated sigh. “Can you direct us to someplace we can store the plane and perhaps a hotel.”

“Everything’s booked. The airports about five miles away, but it’s closed due ta the storm. Ya’d best store it in my barn. Luckily it’s empty at the moment,” Cobb informed him. “You’re welcome to stay at my place. Might be a mite cramped, but I imagine we can squeeze the two of ya somewhere. The farmhand’s room perhaps.”

Illya thought it over. “We wouldn’t want to put you out.”

“Not a problem.” Cobb went back to his tractor and pulled some chain from behind the cab, Illya and the deputy helped hook the plane up to the tractor. Napoleon tried to help, but it was more like having no help at all.

“Somethin’ the matter with your bud?” Stan asked between chews.

“He’s not himself,” Illya answered vaguely.

Illya and Napoleon were both soaked to the skin by the time they managed to secure the plane, collect their luggage and follow Cobb to the main house. 

“Best let the missus know what’s going on.” After climbing the steps and opening a screen door that led to the back porch, Cobb opened the door to called out, “Annie.”

A woman with brown hair flecked with grey opened the back door, a spatula in her hand, an eyebrow cocked inquisitively, as she noticed the two men with her husband. “What ya got there, Ran?”

“Two city fellas.”

“That’s obvious,” Annie said dryly, a humorous glint lit her grey eyes.

“Need a place to stay. Thought they could use the farmhand’s quarters.”

“Just don’t forget to wipe your feet.” Annie turned away.

Cobb nodded and led the way to a door on one side of the porch. “Not much room, but I figure beggars can’t be choosers.”

Illya walked into the small room. It held a single bed, a dresser and not much else.

“Washroom’s through that door,” Cobb pointed with his chin. “Other door leads to the kitchen. When you’ve finished cleaning up you might want to meet the rest of the family.”

Cobb left them, leaving Illya to wonder if this sort of thing happened often. Mrs. Cobb had shown no surprise at her husband showing up with two strangers in tow. He walked over and opened the door to the small bath, noting that there wasn’t much to it. A shower stall, sink and toilet. During all this Napoleon stood in a corner not saying anything. He looked a little lost and forlorn. 

“You okay?” Illya asked.

Napoleon nodded, but Illya could tell his heart wasn’t really in it.

“We need to get out of these filthy clothes,” Illya said to him. A light of recognition seemed to appear in Napoleon’s eyes only to fade back to the lost look. “Why don’t you take the first shower?” 

Napoleon started for the bathroom, shedding clothing as he went. He shut the door then opened it again. “How’s it work?”

Keeping his sigh to himself, Illya entered the bath doing his best to ignore Napoleon’s naked state and adjusted the water level. While in there he managed to wipe away the worse of the mud and grime from his own visage, then turned to leave.

“Why don’t you join me?” Napoleon asked.

Illya stopped short, unable to believe he’d heard right. Had Napoleon’s memory return and was he making advances? He turned to find Napoleon’s expression one of childlike innocence. Disappointed with himself for even thinking what he was thinking, Illya could only say gently, “No, I don’t think it would be a good idea.”

“Okey dokey.” Napoleon shrugged and turned back into the bathroom. He was out, soaking wet five minutes later. 

Illya, a small smile playing across his face, took one look at him, grabbed a wash cloth and some soap, pushed them into Napoleon’s hands turning him back to the bathroom. “This time use soap.”

Illya sat heavily down on the bed and pulled out his communicator. “Open Channel D.” The only sound that issued was static. He ran through the list of channels before giving up.

This time when Napoleon, a pleased smile upon his face, came back he held his hands out before him assuring Illya that he was indeed clean. Illya, who had, after unpacking their suitcases, laid out some clothing for Napoleon, took most of his with him, grabbing a clean towel and hurried to take his turn. He couldn’t take long, he’d learn leaving Napoleon alone could bring about disastrous results. Not sure what to expect he exited the bath to find Napoleon sitting cross-legged atop the bed, his face, supported by his fists, woe-be-gone.

Before he could ask what was wrong there was a knock at the door. “Dinner’s on the table.”

Illya pulled a clean turtleneck shirt over his head, then headed for the door. He made sure Napoleon was dressed appropriately before going into the kitchen. It was his first real look at Mr. Cobb, shaggy graying hair surrounded a round bearded face, seated at the table. Illya estimated that he probably stood over six feet. Sitting next to him was his wife, along with four young girls. The oldest looked to be about eighteen, the youngest about four and all were staring with avid interest at Illya and his partner.

“Sit,” the burley man commanded pointing with his spoon to two places settings.

“Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Cobb,” Illya said as he slid into his seat. “We really do not mean to put you to any trouble. Do you have a phone I could use? I need to get in touch with our boss and let him know we are grounded.”

“Sorry. Phone lines are all down.” Cobb said between bites of stew. “Looks like Dora’s decided to pay us a visit.”

“And it’s Annie and Randy,” Mrs. Cobb said as she ladled some stew onto the two men’s plates. “It’s no trouble at all. Randy is always bringing home strays,” she teased as she sent a fond glance to her husband. This caused the four girls to smother giggles, while the big bear of a man’s face reddened. Evidently he was more of a teddy bear then a bear. 

“This here’s our eldest Becky,” Cobb said introducing his daughters. “Graduates high school this year. Next to her are the twins Samantha and Tabitha, just started junior high. Finally this here’s the baby.”

“Dad!!” the youngest exclaimed, while the twins giggled.

“Well ya are. Her names Katrina, we call her Trinee.”

Evidently the children were used to having strangers at their dinner table. They soon started talking amongst themselves. Illya turned his attention to the food. Annie was an excellent cook. Napoleon sat still, not touching his until Illya gestured for him to do so. It felt strange for Illya to be doing all the talking, it was something that Napoleon normally excelled in, but Napoleon was quiet, more so than usual. He scooted his chair closer to Illya when the eldest girl moved her’s, trying to draw Napoleon into the conversation.

“Where ya’ll from,” Becky asked.

Napoleon looked to Illya, his eyes clearly asking to be rescued. “New York,” Illya said, even as he caught Napoleon’s hand, seeing it sneaked toward his lap. Over the past week he’d noticed that when Napoleon got nervous, he tended to play with himself as a sort of stress release management. Doing it in the privacy of his home was one thing, though Illya found it somewhat embarrassing, doing it at the dinner table in front of the Cobbs was definitely not the place.

“Wow!” the twins said together, their eyes big as saucers.

Becky’s eyes were dreamy. “New York,” she breathed. “Broadway plays, fashion shows …”

“We got them things here,” Mr. Cobb pointed out bluntly.

“But, Pop, it’s not the same.” Her eyes wistfully on Napoleon. Her parents quickly changed the subject to more mundane issues like homework.

After the meal was over and while the girls cleaned up, Mr. Cobb motioned the two men into the family room. He turned to the two agents. “Look, the weathers really bad, so you two are gonna be stuck here a while.”

Illya wondered where Mr. Cobb was going. He looked at Napoleon who was watching with fascination the fire flickering in the fireplace. 

“The thing is … my girls mean a lot to me,” Cobb wasn’t looking directly at either man. “You two being strangers and all, city slickers … well I couldn’t help but notice …”

Suddenly it hit Illya what Mr. Cobb was trying to say. Under normal circumstances Mr. Cobb might have something to worry about, but with Napoleon the way he was … “Sir, let me assure you, that neither of us have designs on your daughters.” 

A look of relief passed over Mr. Cobb’s face as he offered each man a drink. “Good. I wasn’t looking forward to having ta shoot ya.”

Illya did his best to carry the conversational ball, usually Napoleon’s area of expertise. Napoleon had taken one sip of his drink, wrinkled his nose in disgust, then set it down upon the coffee table. Fortunately Mr. Cobb was dealing with the fireplace at the time. 

In a short time Napoleon began to look drowsy and Illya excused themselves, thanking both Mr. and Mrs. Cobb for letting them stay and ushered Napoleon from the room.  
.  
***

Napoleon climbed on the bed and sat cross-legged in the middle, which looked very strange. 

“I don’t like it here,” Napoleon announced.

“Oh why?” Illya asked, retrieving their pajamas from their luggage. 

“Too many girls.” Napoleon’s nose wrinkled in distaste.

Illya’s mouth twitched at one side as he passed Napoleon his pj’s.

“Don’t want ‘em,” Napoleon said pushing them away.

Raising a questioning eyebrow it hit Illya that over the past week Napoleon had gotten used to doing without. Striving for reasonability Illya said, “You don’t want to be seen wandering around in your birthday suit do you?”

“Why not?” The grin on Napoleon’s face was so reminiscent of his partner’s usual countenance that Illya began to wonder if Napoleon was faking. Napoleon’s exuberant bounce out of the bed convinced Illya that he was not. If Illya found out that Napoleon was faking any of this he would rue the day.

***

A soft knock at the door woke Illya. Napoleon was currently wrapped around him, hugging him tightly. It had been difficult getting comfortable in the small bed. Napoleon may have thought he was seven years-old, but his body was still adult size, a contradiction in terms that puzzled Illya to no end. How did Napoleon see himself in the mirror? Back at U.N.C.L.E. headquarters Napoleon had seen himself in the mirror and not recognized himself for whom he was. Then it dawned on Illya that he hadn’t notice Napoleon looking into any mirrors. Also Napoleon never questioned him on anything Illya did to him. After Napoleon’s first attempt to shave himself, Illya had taken over. Napoleon hadn’t even questioned why he had to shave. All most puzzling. 

Illya carefully extradited himself, looked at his watch seeing that it was two o’clock before opening the door. Mrs. Cobb, dressed in a flannel gown, stood there pacing and wringing her hands. “Yes?” Illya asked.

Blushing Mrs. Cobb turned her attention toward him. “I’m sorry to bother you like this … but the storm's gotten worse and Randy left to check on the livestock. That was over two hours ago and I’m worried.”

Illya bit his lower lip and glanced back at Napoleon. He wasn’t worried about going out and searching for Mr. Cobb, but what should he do about Napoleon. Leave him here at the mercy of four young girls or take him with him. It occurred to him that Napoleon might be more a hindrance then a help, so he decided to leave him behind. Hurriedly dressing, he left Napoleon slumbering away and made his way to the back door where Mrs. Cobb waited with a much too big slicker in her hands. Silently she pointed in the direction her husband had taken.

The rain was pouring down diagonally and Illya estimated the windchill factor was forty degrees. He blinked, trying to clear away the rain and headed out, pulling the too large rain coat around him. The wind was strong and almost sent him back to his starting point. Pulling his head down he ploughed along hoping he found Mr. Cobb soon.

***

Whump. The heavy shaking of the bed startled Napoleon awake. He opened his eyes to find six pairs of eyes staring down upon him. He sat up pulling the bedclothes up to his neck to find the twins and their little sister were arranged around him on the bed. He glanced frantically around wondering where Illya was.

“The storms gotten worse,” one of the twins declared. 

“Your friend is off looking for pops,” the other chimed in.

“I’m scared,” said the littlest.

“Girls! Leave Mr. Solo alone,” Mrs. Cobb admonished them from the doorway. Giggling the three girls jumped off the bed and headed out the door. Mrs. Cobb continued to stand in the doorway an anxious look on her face. “Your friend’s been gone quite awhile. I was sure they’d be back by now.”

Napoleon looked at her, unsure of what she wanted of him.

“Thought maybe you could go out and check?” 

Napoleon hurriedly got dressed and went into the kitchen where Mrs. Cobb handed him a rain slicker before she virtually pushed him out the door. Napoleon blinked away the rain that steamed into his eyes unaware that Illya had done the same thing earlier. Glancing backward, he caught sight of Mrs. Cobb standing in the doorway waving him on. Where was he supposed to go? The sun was just showing over the horizon and Napoleon didn’t know which way to turn. He closed his eyes and felt a pull in a certain direction. Opening his eyes he could just make out a barn in the distance, a flicker of light shining through an opening. Pulling the rain coat closer around him, Napoleon trudged through the muck and mire toward the light. He was scared and all he wanted to do was find Illya.

The wind that was still blowing kept trying to pull him back and if Napoleon had been the size his mind thought he was, he would have blown away. Finally he reached the door to the barn and slipped through the opening, grateful that the wind was no longer buffeting him. The place was dark, except for the meager light from a hurricane lamp hanging from one of the many stalls that Napoleon could make out from his position by the door. “Illya?” he called in a tiny voice, scared that there would be no answer to his plea.

A blond head appeared as if by magic inside one of the stalls, beaconing him. “Napoleon! What are you doing here?”

Napoleon rushed over, glad that he’d found his friend. “Mrs. Cobb sent me.”

Mr. Cobb looked up from where he was tending a sheep. “Must be worried. Times like this I wish we had walkie-talkies.”

“What’s happening,” Napoleon asked looking over the door to the stall. A large sheep was lying on a bed of hay bleating loudly.

“It’s comin’,” Mr. Cobb shouted excitedly and Illya squatted next to him. Napoleon moved into the area to stand behind Illya was watched as something appeared outside the sheep’s body.

“What is it?” Napoleon whispered.

“It’s a lamb,” Mr. Cobb informed him. “Damn ewe. Knew she was close, but thought it would be a few days. She picked a fine time to have it.”

Napoleon watched in amazement as Mr. Cobb lifted the small lamb by its back legs and wiped it off with a dirty rag and the little thing started to bleat just like its mother. 

“Mr. Cobb!” Illya’s voice was urgent as he pointed to the mother ewe. Another lamb was making its appearance. 

Mr. Cobb tossed the first little one to Napoleon and moved next the Illya ready to help with the birthing process if need be. This birth proved easier than the first and soon the little one was nuzzling at its mother nursing. Mr. Cobb took back the first lamb and set it down next to its sibling to nurse, but the mother butted it away.

“I was afraid of that,” Mr. Cobb said with a shake of his head. He picked up the rejected lamb and wrapped it tightly in cloth. “Happens sometimes. Would you mind watching for awhile … make sure everything’s okay?” he asked Illya. “I’ll take this one to the house. Looks like we got us a job on our hands.” Even as he complained, Mr. Cobb had a big grin on his face.

Illya nodded and set about providing comfort to the new mama while Napoleon looked on and Mr. Cobb headed back to the house. He glanced over at Napoleon. Napoleon had a look of childlike wonder on his face that was quite endearing. Illya shook his head, dispersing such thoughts. “You okay?” he asked Napoleon.

Napoleon took his eyes off the wonder he’d just witness. “I am now,” he answered with a grin before scooting closer to Illya and leaning against him. Illya couldn’t help but gather Napoleon in his arms bringing them even closer. As Napoleon snuggled up to him, falling back to sleep, Illya wondered how and why it all felt so natural. After half an hour Illya felt certain that the ewe and her lamb would be fine. He gathered up his raingear and his partner to head back to the house. The sun was up and the rain wasn’t as strong. The storm was nearly over. 

Illya could see the house in the distance. The barn where they had stored the plane in was barely visible, being a good acre or more from the house. The creek next to the barn where the livestock were quartered had risen alarmingly, looking more like a small river, and cutting off the direct path to the house. Illya with Napoleon in tow tried skirting it with unexpected results. Slipping on patch of dead leaves, Illya lost his balance and fell in. It shouldn’t have been difficult for him to get out, but the current was stronger then Illya thought and the heavy raingear was pulling him down. He sank to the bottom, kicked off and came up sputtering. He could see Napoleon pacing back and forth on the bank in a panic. Unfortunately a tree branch floated into him, hitting him hard enough to cause him to lose conscientious.

On the bank Napoleon was frantic. He didn’t know what to do. He started to head for the Cobb’s house, but on seeing the large branch hit Illya, he instinctively turned back, shucked off his raingear and jumped into the creek. The shock of the cold water must have affected him. All he could think of was saving Illya. Dog paddling in place, he searched desperate to find the blond head. Off to his right he spotted it and managed to snag Illya before he could sink once more. Doing his best he got a better grip and using one arm, he paddled to shore. He pulled Illya out of the water, unsure if he was even breathing. “Come on, Illya. You can’t leave me now,” Napoleon muttered desperately as instinct once again took over while he positioned the slighter man and began giving mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

After a few minutes, Illya coughed and water squirted out of his throat, his blue eyes fluttered open to find an anxious pair of dark eyes peering down at him in concern, his thumb caressing Illya’s cheek. “Napoleon?” he asked weakly.

Napoleon pulled Illya to him, hugging him tightly to his chest. “You gave me quite a scare there, partner.” Only then did Napoleon see two people running toward them, he would have reached for his gun but Illya brought one arm up over his, holding Napoleon in place. Napoleon looked around, trying to find cover for the two of them. He froze, puzzlement replacing fear, not recognizing where they were. “Illya? Can you tell me where the hell we are?”

Illya patted Napoleon’s arm and laughed.

***

Back in New York, Illya Kuryakin was up-dating Alexander Waverly on their adventure. Napoleon was in the medical section being checked out.

“Hmmmph, send the two of you away and you manage to find trouble,” Mr. Waverly chuckled. “At least Mr. Solo seems to be back with us.”

“It would appear so. Does the medical section have any idea of what brought it about, sir?”

Waverly pulled a folder to him, opening it to refer to. “Unfortunately no. They speculate that the near miss of your drowning might have been the catalyst that brought him back."

“And his memory?” Illya held his breath.

Mr. Waverly appeared to not notice. “According to our experts, he’s right back where he was when this all began.” Waverly’s tone held a hint of sarcasm. “They refuse to speculate on whether his memory of the intervening time will return or not.”

Illya didn’t know if that was good news or bad. He pushed himself out of his chair. “In that case, I’d better go spring him from medical.”

Waverly took one last look at the report before closing the folder. “No need, Mr. Kuryakin. Mr. Solo has already sprung himself and hopefully gone home. Unless he’s flirting with the secretarial pool again.”

***

Illya stood in front of Napoleon’s door. He raised his hand to knock then rubbed his sweaty palms on his pants legs. There was no reason for him to be nervous, after all Napoleon, if he was to believe the medical section, did not remember what had happened while he thought he was seven. Even if he did, he couldn’t possibly be aware of the temptations that Illya felt he had to resist. He paced back and forth in front of the door a dozen times before getting his nerve up to finally knock.

The door opened and Napoleon finally answered; a blank expression on his face which did not bode well.

“I left a few things,” Illya explained, wondering if he’d come at a bad time. “Hope you don’t mind?”  
He stood there, feeling strangely uncomfortable, when Napoleon stepped back and gestured him inside. This was ridiculous it wasn’t as if this was the first time he’d been here, in Napoleon’s apartment; even before … he couldn’t bring himself to mental verbalize everything that had happened in the last couple of weeks.

“Umm, come on in,” Napoleon said, waving Illya in. Napoleon was not only confused, he was embarrassed. From the moment he’d pulled Illya from the creek to the moment he’d been left in the care of the medical section, everything was rather a blur. The relief he felt when Illya started breathing again was replaced by confusion as to where they were. The fact that Illya's insistence that he would explain later had not helped. It was only his trust in Illya that kept him going as they bid the Cobb family ado and boarded the jet that had weathered the storm to head back to New York. 

Illya had taken charge. Somehow managing without actually telling anyone anything to get them cleaned, have the plane readied and hustled Napoleon onto it. He’d managed to frustrate Napoleon to no end by, once they returned to U.N.C.L.E. headquarters, steering Napoleon to medical and leaving him feeling abandoned.

The doctor kept asking him questions for which he had no answers. The nurse kept giving him funny looks. Then suddenly, a flash of light exploded in his head and he remembered everything in excruciating detail. Somehow he managed to keep the fact off his face and make good his escape. He’d gone home, pacing the floors of his apartment wondering if it would even be possible to save their partnership or even his job. Illya now had enough blackmail material to last a lifetime. Which, if Napoleon was lucky, would be short.

It wasn’t so much the childish behavior, but the fact that he’d allowed the affection he felt for Illya to show so openly. Now Illya was here, in his apartment and he didn’t know what to say. 

“Want something to drink,” came out without thought and Napoleon waved his hand toward the bar area.  
Thankfully Illya nodded, moved into the room and over to the bar where he pulled a decanter to him pouring a glass. Illya turned back toward him and held up the decanter silently asking Napoleon if he too wanted a drink. 

With a shake of his head, Napoleon walked to the sofa, sitting down dejectedly. He wiped his hands across his face and decided to get it over with. 

“Damn, Illya, I don’t know what to say,” he stammered not looking at his partner. “My behavior … if you want a new partner … I’d understand.”

“Ahhh, you remember,” Illya said softly.

“Ohhhh, yes,” Napoleon said, leaning back on the sofa and pulling one of the decorative pillows to his chest, hugging it tightly and using it as a shield of sorts. “I was such an … ass.” His face turned red, remembering the liberties he’d taken to snuggle up with Illya, the feel of their bodies in close proximity. How he’d displayed himself, openly masturbating in front of Illya, even asking, hoping to actually touch the Russian’s body in a manner that he’d never allowed himself to consider before. 

“True,” Illya said, his mouth twitching in amusement as he sat on the coffee table in front of Napoleon. He placed one hand on Napoleon’s knee. “But that isn’t new.”

Napoleon looked up, a corner of his mouth quirked upward. “You forgive me?”

“Forgive you for what?” Illya asked puzzled, moving to sit next to Napoleon on the sofa.

“For acting like such a child … for …” Napoleon raised a hand, instinctively wanting to caress Illya’s face, pulling it back as he realized what he’d almost done. “the hugging and … the ah, the … you know.”

“Napoleon,” Illya started. Resting his elbows on his knees, his glass held in both hands he looked down into his drink. “You were unaware of your actions.” And how they affected me, Illya thought to himself. “There is nothing to forgive.”

Without consciously thing about it Napoleon embraced Illya to him, causing the drink to spill. He pulled away swiftly stammering, “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Illya said simply.

Napoleon stared into the blue eyes, seeing sincere and utter acceptance. Illya took the decision away from him by moving back into his arms as Napoleon realized he didn’t know what to do next. For some reason it didn’t feel as awkward or unnatural as Napoleon thought it would and he felt that he could stay that way all night. However another thought occurred to him. “Wanna play with my willy?” he asked wickedly. He could feel Illya shaking against him as he fought to hold his chuckle in. 

Illya pulled away his eyes brimming. “Not in this day and age. It’s too dangerous.”

“It’s done all the time,” Napoleon insisted, though there was an uncertainty to his voice.

“Not two men in …” Illya choked on the next word. “love.” Then he looked intently at Napoleon. “Unless I’m reading you wrong.”

Napoleon pulled away, though holding Illya was what he wanted to do. He looked down at his hands then turned a sincere gaze at Illya. “No you’re reading me correctly. My feelings are more than just … why do you always have to be right,” he said bitterly.

“When you’re number two you try harder,” Illya said with a shrug.

“One day it won’t be wrong, this feeling we share. You do share it?” Napoleon asked, taking Illya’s hand in his and intertwining their fingers.

“Not in our life time, I fear,” Illya said with a nod of agreement as he leaned back on the sofa.

“So what do we do?” Napoleon asked bringing Illya’s hand to his lips.

“We do as we always have,” Illya said while making himself comfortable. “We live each day as if it were our last.”

Napoleon brightened up. That answer left him some hope for the future.

“I would not begrudge you a hug and a few kisses,” Illya continued, he moved his hand away when Napoleon started to move it to his crotch. “But I draw the line at ‘playing with your willy’,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. "Though when you think about it, you are not as young as you used to be."  
.


End file.
